The Aquitaine Progression

by Robert Ludlum

  We would sit around having coffee after dinner, the talk quite depressing. We knew the war was lost. The insane orders from Berlin—most we agreed would never be carried out—guaranteed wholesale slaughter of troops and civilians. It was madness, national suicide. And always, this young Leifhelm would say things like “Perhaps the fools will listen to me. They think I’m one of them, they’ve thought so from the early days in Munich.” … And we would wonder. Could he bring some sanity to the collapsing front? He was a fine officer, highly regarded, and the son of a well-known doctor, as he constantly reminded us. After all, young men’s heads were turned in those early days—the cavernous soul-stirring roars of Sieg heil, the fanatic crowds; the banners and drums and marching beside ten thousand torches at night. It was all so melodramatic, so Wagnerian. But Leifhelm was different; he wasn’t one of the gangsters; patriotic, of course, but not a hoodlum.… So we sent dispatches with him to our closest comrades in Berlin, dispatches that would have resulted in our executions had they fallen into the wrong hands. We were told he tried very hard, but he could not put sanity in the minds of men who lived in daily fear of death from rumor and gossip. But he maintained his own sanity—and loyalty—which were constant. We were informed by one of his adjutants—not him, mind you—that he was confronted by an S.S. colonel who had followed him in the street and demanded the contents of his briefcase. He refused, and when threatened with immediate arrest, he shot the man so as not to betray us. He was one of us. It was a noble risk and only a night bombing raid saved his own life.

  It is clear what Leifhelm was doing and equally clear that the dispatches were never shown to anyone, nor was there an S.S. colonel shot in the streets during a bombing raid. According to Winter, those dispatches from the Saar were so explosive in content that someone would have remembered them; no one does. Once again, Leifhelm had seen an opportunity. The war was lost, and the Nazis were about to become the ultimate twentieth-century villains. But not the elite German general corps—there was a distinction. He wiped another slate clean and joined the “Prussians.” He was so successful that he was rumored to have been part of the plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler at Wolfsschanze, and called upon to be a member of Dönitz’s surrender team.

  During the cold war, Allied Central Command asked him to join other key elements of the Wehrmacht officer corps in the Bundesgrenzschutz. He became a privileged military consultant with full security clearance. A mature killer had survived, and history, with the Kremlin’s help, took care of the rest.

  In May ’49 the Federal Republic was established, and the following September the Allied occupation formally came to an end. As the cold war escalated and West Germany began its remarkable recovery, the NATO forces demanded material and personnel support from their former enemies. The new German divisions were formed under the command of ex-Field Marshal Erich Leifhelm.

  No one had dredged up the questionable decisions of the Munich courts from nearly two decades past; there were no other survivors and his services were desired by the victors. During the postwar reconstruction when countless settlements and labyrinthine legal resolutions were being sought throughout Germany, he was quietly awarded all assets and property previously decreed, including some of the most valuable real estate in Munich. So ends the third phase of Erich Leifhelm’s story. The fourth phase—which concerns us most—is the one we know least about. The only certainty is that he has become as deeply entrenched in General Delavane’s operation as any other man on the primary list.

  There was a rapping on the door. Joel lunged off the bed, the Leifhelm dossier cascading to the floor. He looked at his watch in fear and confusion. It was nearly four o’clock. Who wanted him at this hour? Had they found him? Oh, Christ! The dossier! The briefcase!

  “Joe …? Joe, you up?” The voice was both a whisper and a shout—an actor’s sotto voce. “It’s me, Cal Dowling.”

  Converse ran to the door and opened it, his breath coming in gasps. Dowling was fully dressed, holding up both his hands for silence as he glanced up and down the corridor. Satisfied, he walked rapidly inside, pushing Joel back and closing the door.

  “I’m sorry, Cal,” said Converse. “I was asleep. I guess the sound startled me.”

  “You always sleep in your trousers with the lights on?” asked the actor quietly. “Keep your voice down. I checked the hallways, but you can never be clear about what you didn’t see.”

  “Clear about what?”

  “One of the first things we learned on Kwajalein in ’44. A patrol doesn’t mean shit unless you’ve got something to report. All it means is that they were better than you were.”

  “I was going to call you, to thank you—”

  “Cut it, good buddy,” Dowling broke in, his expression serious. “I’m timing this down to the last couple of minutes, which is about all we’ve got. There’s a limo downstairs waiting to take me out to the cameras over an hour away. I didn’t want to come out of my room before in case anyone was hanging around, and I didn’t want to call you because a switchboard can be watched or bribed—ask anyone in Cuckooburg. I don’t worry about the desk; they’re not too fond of our crowd over here.” The actor sighed. “When I got to my room, all I wanted was sleep, and all I got was a visitor. I’m down the hall and I was hoping to Christ—if you came here—he wouldn’t see you.”

  “A visitor?”

  “From the embassy. The U.S. embassy. Tell me, Joe—”

  “Joel,” interrupted Converse. “Not that it matters.”

  “Sorry, I’ve an obstruction in my left ear and that doesn’t matter, either. He spent damn near twenty-five minutes with me asking questions about you. He said we were seen talking together on the plane. Now, you tell me, counselor, are you okay, or are my instincts all fucked up?”

  Joel returned Dowling’s steady gaze. “Your instincts are perfectly fine,” he said without emphasis. “Did the man from the embassy say otherwise?”

  “Not exactly. As a matter of fact, he didn’t say a hell of a lot. Just that they wanted to talk to you, wanted to know why you’d come to Bonn, where you were.”

  “But they knew I was on the plane?”

  “Yep, said you’d flown out of Paris.”

  “Then they knew I was on that plane.”

  “That’s what I just said—what he said.”

  “Then why didn’t they meet me at the gate and ask me themselves?”

  Dowling’s face creased further, his eyes narrowing within the wrinkles of bronzed flesh. “Yeah, why didn’t they?” he asked himself.

  “Did he say?”

  “No, but then, Paris didn’t come up until he was about to leave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was like he figured I was holding back something—which I certainly was—but he couldn’t be sure. I’m pretty good at what I do, Joe—Joel.”

  “You also took a risk,” said Converse, remembering that he was talking to a risk-taker.

  “No, I covered myself. I specifically asked if there were charges against you or anything like that. He said there weren’t.”

  “Still, he was—”

  “Besides, I didn’t like him. He was one of those pushy official types. He kept repeating things, and when he couldn’t come up with anything, he said, ‘We know he flew out of Paris,’ as if he was challenging me. I said I didn’t.”

  “There’s not much time, but can you tell me what else he asked you?”

  “I told you, he wanted to know everything we talked about. I said I didn’t have a tape recorder in my head, but it was mainly small talk, the kind of chatter I get all the time from people I meet on planes. About the show, the business. But he didn’t want to settle for that; he kept pushing, which gave me the opportunity to get a little pissed off myself.”

  “How so?”

  “I said, yes, we did talk about something else but it was very personal, and none of his damn business. He got pretty upset at that, and that let me get even angrier. We exchanged a few barb
s but his weren’t very sharp; he was too uptight. Then he asked me for about the tenth time if you’d said anything about Bonn, especially where you were staying. So I told him for the tenth time the truth—at least what you said. That you were a lawyer and here to see clients and I didn’t know where the hell you were. I mean I didn’t actually know you were here.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Is it? Instincts are okay for first reactions, counselor, but then, you have to wonder. An aggravating Ivy League government man, waving an embassy ID and acting obnoxious, may be very annoying in the middle of the night, but he is from the Department of State. What the hell’s this all about?”

  Joel turned and walked to the foot of the bed; he looked down at the Leifhelm dossier on the floor. He turned again and spoke clearly, hearing the exhaustion in his voice. “Something I wouldn’t for the life of me involve you in. But for the record, those instincts of yours were right on, pardner.”

  “I’ll be honest,” said the actor, his clear eyes amused, peering out from behind the creases. “I thought as much. I said to that bastard if I remembered anything else, I’d phone Walter what’s-his-name—except I called him Walt—and let him know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s the ambassador here in Bonn. Can you imagine, with all the troubles they’ve got over here, that diplomatic yo-yo had a luncheon for me, a lousy television actor? Well, the suggestion that I might call the ambassador made our preppie more upset than anything else; he didn’t expect it. He said—three times, as I recall—that the ambassador wasn’t to be bothered with this problem. It wasn’t that important and he had enough on his mind, and actually he wasn’t even aware of it. And catch this, Mr. Lawyer. He said you were an in-house, State Department ‘query,’ as if a simpleminded actor couldn’t possibly understand bureaucratic jingoism. I think that’s when I said ‘Bullshit.’ ”

  “Thank you,” said Converse, not knowing what else to say, but knowing what he wanted to find out.

  “That’s also when I figured my instincts weren’t so bad.” Dowling looked at his watch, then hard at Converse, his eyes now penetrating. “I was a gyrene, but I’m no flag-waver, good buddy. However, I like the flag. I wouldn’t live under any other.”

  “Neither would I.”

  “Then you make it plain. Are you working for it?”

  “Yes, the only way I know how, and that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Are you looking into something here in Bonn? Is that why you didn’t want to be seen with me? Why you stayed away from me in Hamburg—and even getting off the plane here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that son of a bitch didn’t want me to call the ambassador.”

  “No, he didn’t. He doesn’t. He can’t afford it. And, please, I ask you not to.”

  “Are you—Oh, Christ! Are you one of those undercover people I read about? I walk into a guy on a plane who can’t be seen when he gets to an airport.”

  “It’s not that melodramatic. I’m a lawyer and simply following up on some alleged irregularities. Please accept that. And I appreciate what you did for me. I’m kind of new at this myself.”

  “You’re cool, good buddy. Man, are you cool.” Dowling turned and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back at Converse. “Maybe I’m crazy,” he said. “At my age it’s allowed, but there’s a streak in you, young fella. Part go-ahead, part stay-where-you-are. I saw it when I talked about my wife. Are you married?”

  “I was.”

  “Who isn’t? Was married, that is. Sorry.”

  “I’m not. We’re not.”

  “Who is? Sorry, again. My instincts were right. You’re okay.” Dowling reached for the knob.

  “Cal?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have to know. It’s terribly important. Who was the man from the embassy? He must have identified himself.”

  “He did,” said the actor. “He pushed an ID in front of my face when I opened the door, but I didn’t have my glasses on. But when he was leaving I made it clear I wanted to know who the hell he was.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He said his name was Fowler. Avery Fowler.”

  7

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “What did you say?” Converse reeled under the impact of the name. He physically had to steady himself, grabbing the nearest solid object, a bedpost, to keep from buckling.

  “What’s the matter, Joe? What’s wrong with you?”

  “That name! Is this some kind of joke—a bad joke—a bad line! Were you put on that plane? Did I walk into you? Are you part of it, Mr. Actor? You’re damned good at what you do!”

  “You’re either juiced or sick. What are you talking about?”

  “This room, your note! Everything! That name! Is this whole goddamned night a setup?”

  “It’s morning, young man, and if you don’t like this room you can stay wherever you like as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Wherever …?” Joel tried to evade the blinding flashes of light from the Quai du Mont Blanc and clear the searing blockage in his throat. “No … I came here,” he said hoarsely. “There’s no way you could have known I’d do that. In Copenhagen, on the plane … I got the last ticket in first class; the seat next to me had been sold, an aisle seat.”

  “That’s where I always sit. On the aisle.”

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Now you’re rambling.” Dowling glanced at the empty glass on the bedside table, then over at the bureau top where there was a silver tray and a bottle of Scotch whisky provided by an accommodating desk clerk. “How much sauce have you had?”

  Converse shook his head. “I’m not drunk.… I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry! You had nothing to do with it. They’re using you—trying to use you to find me! You saved my … my job … and I went after you. Forgive me.”

  “And you don’t look like someone who’s that worried about a job,” said the actor, his scowl more one of concern than anger.

  “It’s not the employment, it’s … pulling it off.” Joel silently took a deep breath to control himself, postponing the moment when he would have to confront the awesome implications of what he had just heard. Avery Fowler! “I want to succeed in what I’m doing; I want to win,” he added limply, hoping to conceal the slip he saw Dowling had spotted. “All lawyers want to win.”

  “Sure.”

  “I am sorry, Cal.”

  “Forget it,” said the actor, his voice casual, his look not casual at all. “Where I’m at these days screeching’s an hourly occurrence—only, they don’t say anything. I think you just did.”

  “No, I overreacted, that’s all. I told you I was new at this. Not the law, just this … not talking directly, I guess says it.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. Please believe that.”

  “All right, if you want me to.” Dowling again looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go, but there’s something else that might be helpful in saving that”—the actor paused convincingly—“job of yours.”

  “What is it?” asked Converse tightly, trying not to leap at the question.

  “As this Fowler was leaving I had a couple of thoughts. One was that I’d been pretty hard on a fellow who was simply doing his job, and the other was just plain selfish. I hadn’t cooperated, and that could come back and snap me in the ass. Of course if you never showed up here, I’d get my note back and it wouldn’t matter. But if you did, and you wore a black hat, my tail could be in a bucket of boiling lead.”

  “That should have been your first concern,” said Joel truthfully.

  “Maybe it was, I don’t know. At any rate, I told him that in the course of our conversation I asked you for drinks, to come out on location if you wanted to. He seemed puzzled at the last part, but he understood the first. I asked whether I should call him at the embassy if you took me up on either invitation, and he said no, I shouldn’t do that.”

  “What?”

 
; “In short words, he made it very plain that my calling him would only louse up this ‘in-house query.’ He told me to wait for his call. He’d phone me around noon.”

  “But you’re filming. You’re on location.”

  “That’s the beauty part, but the hell with it. There are mobile telephone hookups; the studios insist on them these days. It’s another kind of screeching called budgetary controls. We get our calls.”

  “You’re losing me.”

  “Then find me. When he calls me, I’ll call you. Should I tell him you reached me?”

  Surprised, Converse stared at the aging actor, the risk-taker. “You’re way ahead of me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re pretty obvious. So was he, when I put it together—which I just did. This Fowler wants to reach you, but he wants to do it solo, away from those people you don’t want to meet. You see, when he was at the door and we had our last words, I was bothered by something. He couldn’t sustain the role—any more than you did on the plane—but I couldn’t be certain. He kind of fell apart on his exit, and that you never do even if you’ve got to hold in a sudden attack of diarrhea.… What do I tell him, Joe?”

  “Get his telephone number, I guess.”

  “Done. You get some sleep. You look like a coked-up starlet who’s just been told she’s going to play Medea.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Dowling reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of paper. “Here,” he said approaching Converse and handing it to him. “I wasn’t sure I was going to give this to you, but I damn well want you to have it now. It’s the mobile number where you can reach me. Call me after you’ve talked to this Fowler. I’m going to be a nervous wreck until I hear from you.”